


if only

by arabesque05



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:09:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In high school, Gokudera goes a little crazy at the activities fair and signs up for—Yamamoto counts—eight different clubs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if only

In high school, Gokudera goes a little crazy at the activities fair and signs up for—Yamamoto counts—eight different clubs.

"Are you going to be all right?" asks Tsuna, worriedly.

"Absolutely," Gokudera enthuses, in that vaguely frightening way where his sincerity is like that of a madman; he so obviously isn't all right, but no one ever has the heart (or balls) to tell him otherwise.

"What—are you trying to do, exactly?" asks Tsuna, hesitantly. "What have—what have you signed up for." The second question is punctuated not so much by curiosity as by despair.

Gokudera takes out sheaves of papers: flyers, Yamamoto realizes, from all the various clubs he's joined. "Shogi, go, chess," starts Gokudera, "physics club, chemistry club, math club, home ec—"

Leaving aside the issue of why Gokudera is joining the home ec club, Tsuna asks, "But—how are you going to attend all these meetings?"

"Eh?" says Gokudera. "None of them are at the same time. I checked."

Mutely, Tsuna holds up the shogi flyer and the chemistry flyer: MON 3:15-4:30 says one and MON 3:30-5:00 says the other.

Gokudera smiles, "Exactly, tenth! I knew you'd see my point. Chemistry doesn't start until fifteen minutes after shogi. Plenty of time!"

Tsuna splutters, mostly nonverbal sounds.

Yamamoto says, "hahaha!" and can't quite stop staring at Gokudera.

—

It's kind of a thing these days: Yamamoto can't quite stop staring at Gokudera, Yamamoto can't quite look away from Gokudera, Yamamoto's first instinct whenever he witness something funny or makes a good hit while at bat or walks into a room is to look for Gokudera. This makes things kind of awkward, sometimes: like when he's at home, and Gokudera isn't in any of the rooms; or when he's at baseball practice, which Gokudera never comes to watch; or when he laughs, but Gokudera isn't there—

It would help if the times when Yamamoto _is_ with Gokudera, Gokudera weren't so loud and flashy and crazy like the fireworks at Tanabata. It would help, if Gokudera weren't completely  _insane_.

—

Gokudera's rise to power within the chemistry club nearly rivals the bloodbath of a coup Hibari wrecked on the discipline committee; within two weeks, he burns through most of the supplies in the chemistry department and as a side project, has abjectly terrorized everyone else in the club to the extent that words like "PTSD" start floating around the nurse's office. Gokudera scoffs that if one can't take a little controlled explosion every now and then, one has no business working in a lab; whereupon he pours hydrochloric acid into the cup of his palm and promptly freaks the fuck out of everyone in the club. Again.

"No worries, it's all good," says Gokudera later, while Tsuna tries to alternately demand NEVER DO THAT AGAIN in as authoritative a bleat as possible while at the same time trying to ask DO YOU STILL HAVE A HAND? "My hand was dry. See? It's okay. It wasn't even that impressive. Next time, I think I'll set my hand on fire," to which Tsuna makes NO NO NO, DON'T sounds.

"Hahaha," says Yamamoto, "that'd be cool to see."

"Next time, I think I'll set _your head_ on fire," says Gokudera, with a beautiful bite to his words: the way some cats nip at your sleeve, to tug you to follow them.

"Sure," agrees Yamamoto: which on one hand, with the way Tsuna is making terrified YOU TOO? eyes at him, it's probably a bad idea; on the other hand, with the way Gokudera is grinning like a sociopath at Yamamoto, it doesn't really matter.

—

It'd be good if Gokudera didn't quite make everything else pale in comparison: even Tsuna, though Tsuna's brilliance is more like that of a solar flare in its every-now-and-then-blinding quality than anything else. Gokudera is like some angler fish of the deep sea—singular and beckoning and irresistible; Gokudera is like every sunset Yamamoto remembers from long days of baseball practice, the way everything tinges red and gold and orange, the way the very air turns pink, the way the whole world becomes awash in color, becomes set on fire.

It would be good for Yamamoto's life choices perhaps; but Yamamoto looks at Gokudera and watches Gokudera, and if he is not quite wistful, at the same time, he doesn't want to turn away.

—

Yamamoto starts finding Gokudera hiding from his fangirls in odd nooks and crannies around the school: under the staircases or behind the gym doors or sitting on a cabinet in the art room, head two centimeters from scraping the ceiling. Gokudera has taken to reading books on tactics and strategy while he waits for the hordes to disperse.

Yamamoto ducks under the staircase and sits down next to him. Gokudera glances up incuriously, sees Yamamoto, and says, "Oh, you," more bland than flat, more unsurprised than unwelcoming. Yamamoto is willing to count that a victory.

"Hey," says Yamamoto. "What're you reading."

"I got it from some kids in the go club," says Gokudera. "Cao-Cao's notes on the art of war—" and, the way he sometimes goes shiny-eyed about Heisenberg re: noncommuting matrices, now Gokudera descends into Cao-Cao's ruminations on the psychology of wars and armies and generals. Yamamoto listens (because he always listens); and thinks, _Ah_.

Perhaps not such terrible life choices then: not if Gokudera is studying like this, is working so hard to protect Tsuna and the family. Yamamoto would entrust his life to Gokudera's planning and foresight; Yamamoto would entrust a lot more than that to Gokudera's care.

"I'm kind of happy," says Yamamoto, when Gokudera drifts into affable silence. The book is open on Gokudera's lap, but he's not reading it. Yamamoto says, "I'm kind of happy, that Gokudera is working to take such good care of us."

"Of the tenth, who included you!" snaps Gokudera, flicking a finger at Yamamoto's forehead; but he lets Yamamoto stay under the staircase with him. And he says, "Dumbasses like you don't need taking care of."

"Yes," agrees Yamamoto. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and tells Gokudera, "That's why it makes me happy. That you still would."

"Shut up," says Gokudera, which is as good as _yes_. And he doesn't tell Yamamoto to get the hell away, which is as good as _stay._

—

After practice, as the sky streaks itself in blazing oranges and bruising violets, Yamamoto calls goodbye to his teammates, and goes the long way around the baseball field by the art building, behind which Gokudera is napping on a lawnchair. No one really knows why there are lawn chairs behind the art building; but it being the art building no one questions too hard.

"Hey," says Yamamoto, nudging at Gokudera's leg. "Hayato," he says, which is still something startling and new and precious.

"What," says Gokudera, cracking one eye open. "Oh, you," he says, with complete lack of enthusiasm—but maybe there need be no enthusiasm: that only means Yamamoto had been expected, doesn't it? Or rather—who else could it be?—and that makes Yamamoto a little warm around the heart.

"Did you bike today?" asks Yamamoto.

"Idiot," says Gokudera, around a yawn. "When have I ever owned a bike?"

"We should get you one," says Yamamoto, absently, looking up at the darkening sky.

"Don't need it." Gokudera picks up his bookbag and leads the way to the school gates.

"That's true," agrees Yamamoto. "You wanna ride on the back today? Come over for dinner; dad got some fresh tuna in this morning. If we hurry, there might be some left."

Gokudera rubs the back of his neck, looking conflicted. On one hand: tuna, even in the shitty form of shitty Yamamoto's shitty father's shitty sushi. On the other hand: riding on the back of Yamamoto's bike, like some girl, or invalid, or invalid girl, or—

"I'll call him," smiles Yamamoto. "Tell him to leave some for us."

"Oh, fuck you, don't do me any favors. We can bike."

(If only Gokudera didn't burn so bright; and if only Gokudera weren't so clever; and if only Gokudera didn't care so fiercely about his friends; and if only Gokudera weren't so kind, in secret, bashful ways—)

"What did you make in home ec today?"

"Hmm? Something too chocolate-y," Gokudera reaches into his bookbag and digs out something wrapped in aluminum foil. He tosses it at Yamamoto. "And I got the cayenne pepper and cinnamon mixed up. So then I had to add some garlic: the girl next to me cried when she smelled it baking. You'll definitely like it."

"I'll like it," promises Yamamoto, "Gokudera made it."

"You freak, I didn't make it for you."

"Maa, maa," says Yamamoto. "You made it and I'm eating it, so I'll like it."

"Give it back, I don't want you eating it anymore."

"Haha," says Yamamoto, and tucks the aluminum-foil wrapped too-chocolate-y likely-Bianchi-inspired something away. "All right, all right, let's go home."

"Don't be so careless in dropping out possessive pronouns like that. It's _your_ home," grouses Gokudera, but doesn't say, "not mine". He probably knows what a blatant falsehood that would be: if he doesn't, Yamamoto will have to remedy that. Preferably with extensive invitations for Gokudera to come over and stay over.

"Sure, sure," Yamamoto agrees pleasantly, and goes to get his bike.

(—even then, he thinks, even then, he probably still wouldn't turn away from Gokudera.)


End file.
